


Well-Rehearsed Pain

by derryderrydown



Category: Queer as Folk (UK), Smallville
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-14
Updated: 2009-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-02 17:06:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derryderrydown/pseuds/derryderrydown





	Well-Rehearsed Pain

I should write a book. The Vince Tyler Guide to Disastrous Shags. It'd be a best-seller, make the rest of world feel good about their lovelives.

This particular disastrous shag started, as they usually do, in Babylon. On a Thursday night. Nineties night.

I'm standing there, wallflower in a blue shirt, watching Stuart, who's bumping and grinding with a muscle-bound hunk of perfection. As he usually does. Some things are never going to change.

And then somebody shoves a drink into my hand. Well, places it, really.

"I bought you a drink," the somebody says right into my ear, so close I can feel their breath. Nice voice. American. A bit different, a bit exciting. And my dick, used to responding to the slightest hint of sexual contact out of sheer desperation, sits up and pays attention.

I should look, I tell myself. Get the worst over with. Find out exactly what kind of freak has decided to pick on me tonight.

Only the voice is nice. And it'd be nice to live in a dream world where it's somebody decent chatting me up for once. So I don't look.

Instead, I take a sip of the drink. "How'd you know what to get?" I ask.

He sounds amused. "I've been watching."

So this one's a stalker. Sounds about right.

"That sounds like I've been following you," he says. "I haven't. Well, not before your last trip to the bar." A pause. "I had a private detective do it."

And now this is all sounding wrong. Because a) sense of humour b) recognition of weird behaviour c) American. This is _not_ the kind of guy who shows an interest in Vince Tyler. Trust me, I've got a lifetime's experience of the kind of guys who show an interest in Vince Tyler.

I _have_ to look.

Start at the bottom. Black boots. Big buckles. Very macho, very nice.

Leather trousers. Could be good, could be bad.

Legs. Difficult to tell what they're like under the leather but they're there, which is something. They're still there. Still there. _Long_ legs.

The legs stop just before I decide they're what makes the guy a freak. Turn into slim hips, nice package, waist. He's got a waist. This is a novelty. The blokes who go for me normally go straight to beergut at that point. Silk shirt. It's difficult to tell what colour in the club's lighting but it's pale. Difficult to tell what he's like under it but there's no flab struggling for escape. Broad shoulders.

This is all going far too well. The face, I tell myself, is probably John Merrick. Only it isn't. Nice mouth, nice nose, nice eyes-

Bald.

And not fashion-statement bald. There isn't even a hint of stubble, which means this is genuine, accept-no-substitutes, Duncan Goodhew bald. Freak bald.

Hell, if that's all that's wrong with him, it's my lucky night. Specially if it goes all the way down. I hate getting hair in my mouth.

He'll probably ask me to dress up as a schoolboy. Trouble is, it might be worth it. There's something about his lips.

He leans forward. "We could spend an hour indulging in badinage over this din. Or we could head back to yours and spend the hour more profitably."

"Er, yeah. I mean, if you want to." Vince Tyler, master of flirtation, that's me.

"I think I've made that clear. Do you want to?"

He brushes his hand over his head and, hell, it can't be easy to _be_ a freak. Maybe harder than being a freak magnet. "Yeah. Sure." I take a last mouthful of the drink and a last glance at Stuart, who has his hands firmly clamped over the hunk's arse.

The bald guy doesn't grope me as we leave but his arm brushes against mine and it actually feels good. Feels even better when I get a look at him under decent lighting. There's got to be something freaky under the surface because the surface itself looks way too good to be interested in me.

"Cab?" he says as we get outside.

"Nah, I've got my mate's car." We pass a bloke who eyes up my bald guy and it gives me a sudden moment of 'I pulled a hottie!' "He lets me have it in the evenings. S'easier than getting a taxi out to mine. I'm kind of off the main routes. Not the greatest area, y'know." My mouth's on auto, as usual. What does this guy know about urban Manchester? He's American. _Rich_ American. He probably has a ranch in Texas or one of those big, square states in the middle. "I mean, we could go back to yours. Probably nicer."

A quick sideways glance. "I doubt it. Hotel rooms are the same all round the world."

All round the world. _Definitely_ rich. "Yeah, I don't get abroad much. I mean, I've been to Spain a couple of times but that was just staying in a self-catering place, not really a hotel. There were cockroaches, I remember that. Huge ones."

He looks amused now. "Not many cockroaches at mine, thankfully."

"Wish I could say the same about mine." Oh, great. Now he's expecting an absolute slum.

"I won't be looking out for them," he says and slips his arm round my waist.

Oh my god. He's got _muscles_. I can feel them through our shirts. We'll have to do it in the dark. Thankfully, we reach the jeep before I can say any more and he stands expectantly by the driver's door. "Er, I'm going to have to drive," I say. "Insurance."

He blinks, smiles. Not so much a smile as a little quirk of the lips. It's nice. "I was forgetting we're in Britain." He heads round to the passenger side.

"The weather should be a reminder." I've got the driver's door open and I lean across to open the passenger door and, as soon as it's open, he leans in and kisses me.

Oh. My. God.

He's got his hands on my face, holding me still, not that I need it, and his tongue should be representing America at gymnastics. When he finally pulls away, he's grinning and I'm gasping. He slides on to the seat. "Okay to drive?"

"Er, yeah." King of the silver tongue, that's me. Mind you, he seems to be king of the golden tongue. "I hate nineties night. It always makes me feel ancient."

He slides on his seatbelt and, in the final seconds of the inside light, suddenly looks very young. "The nineties were a good decade, though. I had a lot of fun."

The car starts first time and we head off. "I don't mean to be rude but - how old are you? Only, my mate, right, he took home a   
fifteen-year-old once and it all got a bit messy afterwards."

I catch a glimpse of a sideways look at me. "Don't worry, I'm old enough."

"How old is old enough?"

He sighs and I realise what a prat I'm being. "Twenty-one."

"Oh my god."

"What?"

"I haven't had a twenty-one-year-old since I was twenty-one myself." Hasty calculations. "Which was 1991. How can you have had fun in the nineties?"

"I started young."

He's getting irritated. Time to change the subject. "So, what brings you to Manchester? I mean, I wouldn't have thought it was a hotspot for tourists."

"Business. What brings you to Manchester?"

"Me? Oh, born here. It's not that bad, really. Apart from the weather. And the crime. I mean, Canal Street's not bad." Only, he's from America. Canal Street's probably dead tame.

"It definitely has its good points." His hand's on my thigh. His hand. Is on. My thigh. I swallow, run a red light and practically do a handbrake turn around the corner. "So, what's your name?"

I have to think. "Er, Vince." His hand's still on my thigh. "You?"

"Lex."

"Nice name. Very American."

"Named after Alexander the Great."

"Not so American. He was gay, wasn't he? That's the great thing about the olden days. He could be a great soldier, conquer the world, and still be gay. I mean, you don't get that nowadays. I can't see Stormin' Norman taking his boyfriend along to the battles." A streetlamp catches his face and he's smiling again, that little lift of his mouth. "I should shut up. I know."

"Talk away. I like it. I like your accent."

"My accent? But it's dead common. I mean, Manchester. Not known for nice accents." I'd like to tell him that his accent's sexy but I haven't had enough to drink.

"It's different. I spend too much time in Kansas. I'm starting to expect everybody to sound like a farmboy."

"That's so not me. I don't think I've ever seen a cow. Other than a pantomime cow. Do you get pantomimes in America? Nah, you don't, I remember Stuart saying."

"Stuart's the friend with the jeep?"

"Yeah." And I shut up because talking about Stuart to a one night stand is just wrong. Thankfully, we reach mine and I don't have to think of something to fill up the gaps. "Sorry it's a bit of a mess. I wasn't expecting to pull. I don't, usually."

He gives me a look that might mean _I don't know why not._ Only it's more likely to mean _Yeah, I can believe it_. I've never been any good at reading looks.

"Can I get you a drink?"

"Vodka?"

"Yeah, sure." I'm not sure how he does it but he's right at home in my living room. But still posh. He's going through my videos.

"Dr Who?"

"Er, yeah. I'm a bit of a fan. Not obsessive, though, just a fan." And if he believes that with all the videos and stuffsitting there, he's stupid. Then again, he's here with me, isn't he?

He shrugs, puts the box back. "I'm more of a comics man. Warrior Angel?"

"Oh, I've heard of that one. He's got the big fortress place, right?"

Lex smiles. "That's the one." Can rich, good-looking Americans be sad enough to like comics? I guess they can, because he's got that light in his face that I know I get when I start talking about Dr Who. Stuart either teases me or looks like he wants to ruffle my hair. I never got it until now. "I've got them all. Right from issue one."

"Even that dead rare one?"

"Two copies of it." He's allowed to look smug. From what I've heard, it's the equivalent of _Mission to the Unknown_.

"Wow." I hand him the vodka and I can just see this one night stand ending up with us sitting on the sofa comparing sad obsessions. Bet he doesn't have anything to beat my Stuart obsession, though.

He knocks back the vodka without a gasp - wish I could have done that when I was twenty-one. Wish I could do that now - and his hands are on my face and he's kissing me again. Only this time, the angle's better and he's pulling me in tight and god, his body's good. I don't know where to put my hands because where do you start with something that good?

He pulls away, looks at me serious. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing. Really, nothing."

He doesn't look like he believes me but he kisses me again. This time it's slower, more... seductive? What's the point of seducing me? He's already here, isn't he.

He pulls back and this time he looks irritated. "You have done this before, right?"

"Yes!" Not as much as Stuart. Hell, not as much as Phil. But I'm not exactly inexperienced.

"Right." He places my hands on his hips. "I'm not infected. This-" he runs his hand over his head "-is not contagious. You are allowed to touch me." After a moment, his exasperation seems to fade and his mouth quirks again. "Okay?"

Ah, sod it. I kiss him. Wrap my arms tight round him and bloody well _attack_. Let myself feel the silk and the leather and the gorgeous arse under the leather and the hard flesh under the silk. There's an instant of stillness and then he's moving against me, with me, and god, this is so fucking hot. He actually groans as I grind against him and he breaks the kiss, closes his mouth on my neck and sucks. I'm going to have fun explaining this at work tomorrow but I really don't care.

"Bedroom?" he asks into my skin.

"I can't remember. I think I've got one." How am I meant to remember when he's got one hand on my arse and the other on the back of my neck, tracing patterns with a fingernail?

He gives a little laugh and his breath's warm and damp and _hot_. "I think we should organise a hunting expedition. I'm getting to prefer beds to carpet in my old age."

I don't want to stop touching him and that's just weird. But I pull away anyway. "Yeah." I have to blink, swallow. "Come on." I look at my bedroom through his eyes and I'm embarrassed. "I think the floor might be more comfortable." My bed's ancient. I didn't realise.

"Looks fine to me." He's unbuttoning my shirt. I like it when other people take my clothes off. Makes me feel more, well, wanted. Only, shit, the light's on and he's going to lose all that smouldery look when he actually sees me.

"Er, just need to turn the light off."

"No." He catches my shoulders and his look's almost like Stuart, that knowledge that nobody's going to even try objecting. His head's tilted slightly and he's looking at me, mouth quirked. "I like to see what I'm doing." Slow, deliberate, he's back to unbuttoning my shirt.

I swallow as he pushes it off my shoulders, then steps close and kisses me. All that silk rubbing against me. Wow. Only his shirt's unbuttoned too and that means it's skin as well as silk and I really can't tell the difference.

Suddenly, he gives me a sharp shove and I'm sitting on my bed. He doesn't say anything, just looks at me as he finishes stripping off his shirt and it looks like he is bald all the way down. He drops his shirt on the floor.

"You can't do that! It's silk. Here-" I'm standing up to fold it, but he just pushes me back down.

"Screw it."

And he's unfastening his trousers now and suddenly I don't give a toss about the shirt. He can probably afford to buy fifty more. I bet he's got even more money than Stuart. I don't know how he does it but he's out of trousers, boxers, boots and socks in one easy slither and I'm suddenly glad he wanted the light on. Skin was never a turn-on before. Fucking miles of it, creamy and silky and, shit, I'm staring.

He doesn't seem to mind because he just drops to his knees in front of me and his hands are at my waist, unbuttoning my trousers.

And I actually let myself think that maybe, just maybe, this _won't_ be a disastrous shag.

* * *

I oversleep, of course. I didn't get to sleep till about five and I should have been up at half seven. I shoot through the shower first and I'm calling a cab for Lex when he comes out of the bathroom with... I didn't know I had any towels that small. Second thoughts, it might be a flannel.

"I don't need a cab," he says. "Just drop me in town."

"I'd love to," I say, "but I've got to pick up Stuart and I'll end up late for work."

"Stuart must live close to Canal Street, or he'd have needed the car. Drop me there." He saunters through to the bedroom and I'm left wondering just whose life I'm living.

Lex is dressed and ready before me. God, my suit's hideous. Bet his are all pure wool and designer and stuff. Even though I know his shirt's been in a crumpled heap on the floor all night, it looks perfect.

I know I'm asking for trouble but, on the drive to Stuart's, I don't look at him and I say, "So, are you going to be on Canal Street tomorrow?"

I can _feel_ him look at me and I can feel the pity in his look as he shakes his head. "I've got to head down to London tomorrow to finalise some papers. And then it's back to Kansas the day after that."

"Right." I flick the windscreen wipers on. Typical Manchester weather. "Are the clubs out there good?"

He smiles and looks out his window. "In Metropolis, yes. But I live in a tiny little hick town miles from anywhere. The hub of the local social life is a coffee shop run by a high school student."

"Sounds dull."

"It has its compensations."

And his smile... For all that we're so different, I recognise that smile from when I'm thinking about Stuart. I don't ask what the guy's name is. It's a one-night stand and you don't pour your heart out to a one-night stand.

We're silent until I pull up outside Stuart's. Lex is still climbing out when Stuart shoots out of the building. "You're late, you stupid fu-" Stuart stops and stares at Lex. "Oh, you pulled. Is it autumn already? I'll let you off, then."

Stuart's halfway into the driver's seat when he stops and gets back out to lean on the bonnet of the jeep and stare at Lex. Lex looks back, one eyebrow slightly raised. "I know you," Stuart says. "Didn't I screw you a few years back?"

"I can't say I remember it," Lex says and he's so damn chilly about it that I know he does.

"Oh, you're American. Shit, I remember, it was New York. So that would have been what, six years ago? Seven? I wouldn't normally remember but you were bald back then, too. It's a good look on you, you should keep it."

Lex smiles tightly and I do the maths. He would have been fourteen or fifteen. Maybe sixteen at a pinch.

"I've got to go," Lex says. He puts his hands in his pockets as he walks away and he must be cold in just the silk shirt but it doesn't show.

"C'mon, Vince, chop chop. Don't want to be late for work, do you?"

There's a moment, when I'm climbing into the jeep, that I wish I could tell Stuart to piss off. But - he's Stuart.


End file.
